by Jane Igharo
I gaze through the window for the duration of the ride, unable to speak, unable to look at him.
Though, when he parks in front of my apartment building, my stare goes to his chest—to the spot where I buried my face and cried. Now, the saltwater has dried and marked the white button-down with yellow blotches. There’s also a smear of rouge, a permanent blemish on what looks like an expensive shirt. Right now, the other emotions stirring in me take priority and won’t make room for embarrassment. So rather than cowering away, I fill the silence with words. “What about the clients?”
“Don’t worry. I took care of it.”
“Oh. Okay.” I’m too tired to probe for clarification.
“What’s going on, Azere? You can talk to me . . . if you want.”
I should tell him the truth. He deserves to know, but I can’t bring myself to do it. At least not right now, when I’m still processing the information.
“I should go.” I push the door open. “Thank you, Rafael.” And I am grateful for his understanding and kindness, but I don’t have the energy to express the depths of my gratitude. “Good night.”
“Azere,” he says before my feet touch the pavement, “please take care of yourself.”
In my current state, I can’t make any promises about my wellness, but I force a tight-lip smile, giving him slight assurance.
In the lobby, while waiting for the elevator, I rub my temples, coaxing the chaos in my head to settle. And as it does, as the tempest of regret and confusion and grief gradually simmer to silence, a single thought occurs to me.
I am so screwed.
chapter
13
When I was a little girl, I had a dream—fairy-tale themed. It was nothing original—a charming prince meets a spirited girl, they fall in love and live happily ever after. As I grew, life lessons poked holes into my fairy-tale-themed dream. At sixteen, after the divorce of a friend’s parents, I decided ever after could be cut short if the prince turned out to be a cheating SOB. At nineteen, after my first heartbreak, I became cynical and eliminated the idea of eternal love. At twenty-two, after going on a few dates arranged by my mother, it became obvious that princes come under the guise of various animals—frogs, pigs, snakes, dogs, rats. And sometimes, no matter how much you kiss them, they don’t change.
Now, looking at the list on the ottoman titled “How to Fix My Messed-Up Life,” I realize how far I’ve diverted from my childhood dream. Sitting on the sofa with my legs huddled to my chest, I consider if that dream can be salvaged as it lays under the ruins of my chaotic life. When my phone chimes, notifying me of a text, my attention shifts. After reading the message, I rub my eyes—to ensure I’m seeing correctly—then look at the screen again.
Hey. It’s Rafael. I’m downstairs. Can I come up? I brought dinner.
He’s here—at my apartment building. This morning, I sent him an email, explaining I wouldn’t be coming into the office. After last night, I needed time to recuperate and to think without being so close to him. Now, past seven in the evening, he’s here. What do I do? I hear Christina’s voice instructing me. Tell him you’re pregnant, Azere. It’s what she advised me to do yesterday when I called and told her the news. Tell him you’re pregnant. The thought terrifies me. Can I do it? As I consider, my phone chimes again.
You must be busy. I don’t want to intrude. Never mind. I’ll go.
Before I can think rationally, my fingers move against the screen, and I send a message.
Come up.
The reality of what I’ve done hits the instant Delivered appears under the message I sent.
Shit.
He’s coming up—to my apartment. I stand and quickly stuff tear-soaked tissues into the teal love seat and straighten the ivory throw pillows. In the sitting room, cream curtains drape tall windows, black-and-white pictures of old Hollywood actresses adorn the gray walls, and a charcoal ottoman rests on an ivory shag rug. Not a thing out of place. My apartment remains the perfect combination of cozy and chic.
I rush to the bedroom, pull off my pink pajamas, and throw on a white T-shirt dress. I check my hair in the mirror; thankfully, it doesn’t need any work. With a white scarf holding my braids in a high ponytail, I look like Janet Jackson’s character in Poetic Justice—in the last scene when she accepts Lucky’s apology, kisses him, and gets all giddy. I love that scene. It’s the best part of the whole movie.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
He’s here.
Nervous but very determined to overcome that emotion, I march to the door. Even though my palm sweats against the brass knob, I turn it and pull it open.
“Hi, Azere.”
“Hi.” I still can’t believe it. He’s standing at my door with a brown paper bag in his hand, his signature scent ebbing in the air, presenting me with further evidence of his actuality. “What are you doing here, Rafael?”
“I wanted to check on you.” He scratches the back of his neck as if nervous and unsure of himself. “After yesterday and today, when you called in sick, I wanted to make sure you were okay. How are you feeling?”
“I felt a little sick earlier, but I’m better now.” It isn’t a lie. I was hit with a wave of nausea this morning—an effect of my current status, I suppose. “You brought me dinner.”
“Yeah.” He drops his head and takes a sudden interest in his black loafers, watching them instead of me. “I thought you might be hungry.”
He thought I might be hungry.
For a moment, I don’t see my one-night stand turned colleague turned father of my unborn child. I see the man who shared stories with me yesterday and made me laugh, then held me while I cried and told me everything would be okay. I see a friend, and somehow, the sight of him at my door doesn’t seem outrageous. In fact, it’s rather comforting.
“Come in.” I pull the door wide open, permitting him to enter.
“Are you sure? Are you sure I’m not intruding?” He awaits confirmation with his stare darting from my face to the floor. He looks so hesitant and incredibly adorable and terribly handsome, and my subconscious is begging me to keep him like he’s a stray pup.
“Yes. I’m sure, Rafael. Come in.”
Gingerly, he steps inside.
“You can put the food right there.” I gesture to the tray on the tufted ottoman and lock the door. When I turn around, he’s hunched over, looking at the notepad on the ottoman.
“How to Fix My Messed-Up Life.” He scowls after reading the large scribble. “Azere. Are you . . . are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I grab the notepad and shove it under a throw pillow.
“Really? Because it doesn’t seem that way. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?”
Maybe I should. Here we are, alone. It’s the perfect opportunity to tell him the truth, but once I do, there will be no going back. My already chaotic world will blow up in shards. There will be nothing left—no version of normalcy to hold on to, no possibility of a happily ever after to hope for. There will be nothing left to salvage. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.
“Azere, you can talk to me.”
“Someone’s a tad bit nosy.”
“I’m concerned and maybe a little curious.”
“Well, Mr. Curious, did you know curiosity killed the cat and its owner?”
He frowns. “Really? I thought it was just the cat.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Both. It killed them both.”
He chuckles—teeth exposed, dimples deepening, and eyes radiating warmth. When he stops laughing, he doesn’t push any further. I flop on the couch, and he sits beside me—a little too close. My subconscious taunts me with all the possible outcomes of this situation. Outcomes I refuse to entertain because they involve X-rated activities.
“Here.” He opens a takeout box and hands it to me
. “I got Chinese because I wasn’t sure what else you might like.”
“Chinese is perfect. Thank you.”
“So, what are you watching?”
I open my mouth to answer, but then his knee sways to mine, and I tense. I’m not sure if the action was accidental or intentional. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter because my temperature, fueled by temptation, rises. Now, instead of looking at the television, I look at him—his biceps and chest that fill his shirt, his smooth, flushed lips that are fuller at the bottom, the gap between his thighs that leads to his pelvis.
Oh Lord.
Desire heats my insides and sweat sprouts to the surface of my skin. My nipples, covered by a thin fabric, are in jeopardy of hardening and protruding. This is bad. Really bad. Mentally, I’m whacking a rolled-up newspaper over my head.
Bad girl, Zere. Bad girl. Behave. Get it together.
“Azere, are you okay?”
“Mm-hmm.” I clench my hands, preventing them from doing what my subconscious desperately wants them to do. “It’s called Isoken.” I look at the television, my attention on the movie I muted and neglected minutes before receiving his text message. “It’s my favorite movie.” I take the remote and turn up the volume. “It’s really good.”
“Isoken. I’ve never heard of it,” he says.
“It’s a Nollywood movie—a Nigerian movie.”
“Oh. What’s it about?”
“A successful career woman who has everything but a husband. So her mom sets her up with this guy who’s basically the perfect Nigerian man, but then she falls in love with a . . .” I bite my lip before the last words fall out. Suddenly, the premise I’ve recited many times to friends and family weighs heavy on my tongue as if it’s gained a significance it didn’t have before. I cock my head and watch Rafael who in turn, watches me.
“Falls in love with a what, Azere?”
“Um . . .” I loop a braid around my finger and tug. “A white guy.”
“Oh.” He lifts an eyebrow. “She falls for someone who isn’t Nigerian.”
“Yeah. She does.”
“Well.” He digs chopsticks into a box of chow mein and turns to the television. “This sounds very interesting.”
We watch the movie while eating—me scooping portions of rice into my mouth and him enjoying stir-fry noodles. The sight has me a little dumbfounded—Rafael in my apartment, sitting beside me, watching a romantic movie. He laughs at the funny parts and watches the last scene, smiling.
“That was great,” he says, turning to me. “They ended up together.”
“Well, it is a requirement for every romantic movie—a happily ever after.”
“And you’re the expert on the genre?”
“Well, my sister does call my love for romantic movies an unhealthy obsession.” I shrug. “I just call it an obsession.”
“And why the obsession?”
“My father.” A faint smile touches my lips. “In the evenings, when the lights would go out, he would tell my sister and me stories about our grandfather and great-grandfather and so on. But sometimes, he would tell us love stories. Those were my favorites.” My smile expands. “A cruel king who falls in love with a kind palace maid; a poor farmer who saves a princess’s life and wins her heart; childhood sweethearts who are separated by war but later reunite.” I nod. “Yeah. My dad was a great storyteller. He got me hooked on the whole happily-ever-after idea. Hence the obsession.”
“Then you believe in happily ever afters—that things just somehow work out, that people who are meant to be together, end up together.” He watches me deeply as if looking for more than an answer, as if looking for hope—assurance.
“I don’t know, Rafael. They’re just stories. And in stories, struggles are simplified to guarantee a solution and a happily ever after. Reality is more complicated. People are more complicated.” And this admission makes me even more reluctant about telling him the truth. “It’s getting late.” I stand. “You should probably go.”
“Yes. Of course,” he says, rising. “And I apologize if I intruded.” A deep blush warms his complexion, and my heart skips several beats. “I just had to make sure you were okay.”
“And I appreciate your concern. Really. But I’m fine. And I’ll be in the office on Monday.” I rush to the door and pull it open. “No more days off for me.”
“Okay.” He steps into the hallway and faces me. “Good night, Azere.”
“Yeah. Good night, Rafael.”
I don’t know what else to say. He’s still standing there, smiling, making my body feel things it shouldn’t be feeling. I’m curious. What’s the etiquette when your one-night stand turned colleague turned father of your unborn child comes to your apartment with dinner? What’s the etiquette after his knee touches yours and you basically strip him naked with your eyes? The formality of our valediction doesn’t seem quite right. There’s something else we ought to do, something that’s more fitting, and it’s not until I’m standing on my toes and leaning into him that I realize I’m doing what needs to be done, what feels appropriate.
I loop my arms around his neck and lock him in a hug, showing genuine gratitude. He showed up at my door with dinner and offered a momentary diversion when I was truly in need of one. For that, I’m grateful.
“Thank you.” I whisper the words, and his arms, which have been at his sides, circle around my waist.
We hold on to each other too tightly for far too long, and when we separate and our eyes connect, it’s clear something between us has come undone—the line that divides professional and personal. There was a small fragment of it before, but now, there’s nothing.
“Good night, Rafael.” This time, I don’t delay. My wrist flicks forward, and the door swings on its hinges and clicks closed.
Just like that, he’s gone. Poof. I’m the magician and he’s the illusion, the illusion whose warmth clings to my skin long after he’s gone.
chapter
14
There’s something depressing about weddings, especially if you are single, knocked up, and used to date the groom.
It’s hard to ignore that last fact with my mother watching me from across the banquet hall, her unblinking glare translating to: This could have been you.
She set us up two years ago, and it was one of her better matches. Sunday was a great guy who made me laugh but never made my heart skip or my skin heat and tingle or my stomach contract with excitement and nerves. And I didn’t do the same for him. But he found someone who did, and she has her arms around his neck as they sway slightly off beat to Banky W’s “Made for You.”
She’s a gorgeous bride in a fitted burgundy gown that flares just above her knees; gold and copper embroidery decorate the elaborate train. On her neck, there’s a stack of coral beads that vary in length, some hitting her chest and others her stomach. Her hair, pulled into a large doughnut bun, is adorned with gold trinkets and more coral beads. She looks elegant, regal, stunning— the perfect depiction of an Edo bride.
I’m happy for her and for Sunday, who became a good friend after our relationship ended. Yet, there is something so very depressing about their wedding. Maybe it’s because my life is an exact contrast to theirs.
“Azere, you okay?” Jacob, my cousin, says. “You seem off.”
“Not sure what you mean. I’m just minding my business, eating my suya.” I nibble on the spicy skewered beef while keeping my eyes on the bride and groom.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind. What’s going on, Azere? Or is your head tie too tight?”
“My gele is fine, thank you.”
I touch the firm material mounted on my head in the form of neat, thin pleats. Like all the female guests, I’m wearing aṣọ ẹbí; it is a ruby-red and royal-blue ensemble that each person has fashioned into their own unique, glamorous style. I’ve seen the color combinatio
n only once at another wedding. There, the colors competed with the decor. Here, it complements it. White flowers and candlelight decorate the space while crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow in the enormous hall teeming with red and blue.
“Azere, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Jacob starts questioning me again, relentless in his quest for the truth. I suppose that’s what makes him a great detective.
“Jacob, it’s nothing. Really. I’m . . . um . . . great.” Inventing a solid lie doesn’t come easy when it’s intended for someone who knows me so well.
He’s one of my best friends—has been since we were children. When my family moved in with his, occupying his father’s three-bedroom town house, he was accepting. He was sixteen and I, twelve. He took me under his wing, educating me on things I hadn’t learned in my village. The whole computer situation was especially difficult, but Jacob exercised patience during all his lessons. Over the years, he and I developed a brother-sister relationship that seemed as authentic as the real thing.
Right now, in this active space—people conversing, cutlery clinking, servers balancing platters and trying to meet the needs of each guest—I could tell him everything, and he wouldn’t judge. He wouldn’t lecture me or share my secrets with someone else. If I told him the truth, my secrets would become his.
“Okay. Fine,” I say. “There’s something I need to tell you.” Our table of twelve is missing three guests—my uncle, who left to take a phone call ten minutes ago and has yet to return; my sister, who is gracefully and strategically strutting around the room simply to make her presence known and her outfit seen; and my mother, who I have lost eyes on. “I don’t know how to tell you this.” I lean into Jacob and lower my tone. “The truth is I’m—”
“Azere,” my mother says, making an abrupt reappearance. The royal-blue lace she’s wearing is radiant on her ebony complexion. She chose to go with a simple and classic Nigerian style—a buba and wrapper, a long-sleeved blouse and a wrap-around skirt. Her statement piece is definitely the red gele, which is far larger than mine. “Look over there.” She sits beside me, in what was once Efe’s seat, and points to the enamored bride and groom. “What do you see?”